Men's Final: Evil Ivan Vs. Bouncing Boris

WIMBLEDON, ENGLAND — The marquee at the All-England Lawn Tennis Club this morning should read: ''Boom-Boom meets The Wolfman for Heavyweight Championship of Tennis.''

What we have on Centre Court is a striking contrast between a joyous lad who makes play of his work and a brooding man who makes work of his play. It's Boris Becker, the boy prince of West Germany, against Ivan Lendl, the cold machine currently ranked No. 1 in the world.

Lendl is a dour, deep-eyed sort from one of those murky Eastern European countries. You're certain he was reared in a haunted house. Probably hanging upside down. You figure he was created by just the right lightning bolt, and the temptation when he is present is to look around for Vincent Price.

Ivan is known never to frequent public restaurants, choosing instead to dine behind the drawn curtains of his hotel room, no doubt on blood soup and eye of the newt. Though he maintains his Czechoslovakian citizenship, he lives in a Connecticut mansion behind high walls and his true pride -- a collection of six killer dogs that can be called off your jugular only with Czech commands.

Actually, Lendl is the product of an overbearing mother, once the No. 2 Czech woman tennis player, who used to tie him to the net post while she practiced tirelessly. She'd lock him in a room with a timer if he balked at the vegetables on his plate. This should be a foreboding example to our youths: See, kids, how you'll turn out if you don't finish off those lima beans?

Fairness suggests we consider only the talents and accomplishments of our athletic heroes. But reality dictates that physical feats are a mere prerequisite to limelight status. We insist upon being inspired -- or at least intrigued -- by athletes' appearance, personality and character.

Lendl, alas, would seem desperately deficient in all three. He exudes all the warmth of a radar trap with his Bela Lugosi countenance and stiff, programmed style of play.

The public has disenfranchised Lendl, choosing always -- always -- to lend support to his opponents. You get the notion that anyone caught cheering for Ivan at Wimbledon will be whisked away immediately to Scotland Yard for sharp interrogation. The universal partisanship against him often leads Lendl to whine, which only makes the matter worse.

He interrupted his acceptance speech after winning the French Open last month to scold the fans for supporting spunky Mike Pernfors. And his snorts this week over criticism from British press only brought on a new round of ''Ivan the 'Orrible'' headlines in the tabloids.

Lendl may win respect today should he beat young Becker -- further defusing the fading ''choker'' image he gained from various finals losses -- but he is not likely to win affection. Virtually all the hearts at Centre Court are certain to be with the effusive 18-year-old Wunderkind who has done much to restore German spirit.

Becker's stunning victory here last year, laced with his boyish enthusiasm and diving, fist-punching intensity on the court, have made him a national hero at home and a matinee favorite worldwide.

Remarkably unaffected for an 18-year-old whose life has become a daily series on the German front pages and whose contracts and earnings are into eight figures, Becker treats the buzz around him with a disarming sense of amusement. ''What the heck is going on around here?'' he laughed in his heavy accent the other day in one of his typically frivolous and light media conferences.

Every day English schoolgirls squealed and swarmed his Mercedes when he drove into the All-England complex and, every day he blushed and smiled shyly while signing their programs, draw sheets and magazine photos. Once on the courts, there is nothing shy about ''Baron Von Slam,'' who has cannon-served his way through the draw to prove, in spades, that last year was no fluke.

Becker: ''Every match is difficult as defending champion. Everybody is going out there 110 percent against me. I have to try 120 percent.''

Ditto today, plus he'll have to take care he doesn't get close enough to let Ivan bite.